


Feathered Deception

by kcstories



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Animagus, Animagus Harry Potter, Canon Divergence, HP: EWE, Happy Ending, M/M, Post-War, Romance, flangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-14
Updated: 2010-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-06 07:08:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcstories/pseuds/kcstories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few years after the war, Draco finds a wounded eagle on the Manor's grounds and his solitary existence takes an unexpected turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feathered Deception

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** Originally written for hd_inspired's 2008 "Animagus Fest".  
> **Disclaimer:** This story/artwork is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. Written for fun, not profit.  
> **Warnings:** EWE, explicit sexual content, mild angst, some AU elements.

A flickering candle stands on the desk, dripping hot wax onto an antique book and staining its precious, priceless pages. 

The sole occupant of the room doesn't react. He doesn't even notice. 

He's too busy jotting down word after word upon worn parchment, chronicling tales of a regrettable past, a colourless present and a glorious future he'll never know—not here, not in this lifetime, not after everything that has gone before. 

If they knew how he spends his nights, some people might call this therapy. 

They couldn't be more wrong. 

Therapy would imply the possibility of healing. It would suggest a small glimmer of hope amidst the bitter desolation. 

There is no hope here. There hasn't been any in a long time. 

The man's shoulders are hunched, as though weighed down by life's heavy burdens, and despite his obvious determination, he looks lost and directionless. 

One almost gets the impression that he is writing against the clock and that even time itself has turned against him. 

No, this definitely isn't therapy. Perhaps it's a form of punishment or some desperate attempt at redemption. 

Whatever it is, it goes on for hours, night after night. 

He generally sleeps during the day, if he sleeps at all. 

Since the war, insomnia has become a common problem for many people. The apothecaries can barely keep up with the demand of Dreamless Sleep Potion. 

Not that the man behind the desk would have even the slightest idea about that. He seldom leaves the safety of his home and the vast grounds surrounding it, and on those rare occasions that he does, it's never of his own volition. 

Perhaps that's a form of punishment, too. Unless it's a coping strategy, a way of digesting the loss that twists bitterly in the pit of his stomach and shows no signs of diminishing—not even after three endless years. 

He sighs deeply and briefly pauses his furious scribbling to sharpen his quill. He'll need to order new ones again. He goes through them so quickly these days. Their quality isn't what it was when he was still at school.

The room is quiet, eerily so, and if he were paying more attention, perhaps he'd hear the rustling of wide wings outside his window, moments before the large, black bird flies off into the night sky. 

He doesn't know that the animal would sigh if it could and reach out in friendship because it regrets not having done so many years previous, in a different time when innocence was not yet dead and when nights were still reserved for sleeping. 

*******

By the time Harry Potter gets downstairs, the kitchen is practically deserted except for Hermione who is sitting there with a cup of coffee and poring over some books. She's studying to become a Mediwitch and has another round of important tests coming up next week. 

"Hi," Harry says. He feels somewhat guilty for disturbing her. He knows how rare these quiet moments are at The Burrow. 

"Harry," she says, looking up and giving him her full attention. "Did you only just wake up? It's already after eleven." 

"Yeah," he mutters. "I know." 

"An excessive need for sleep can be a sign of depression, you realise," she points out. There is an underlying tone of accusation in her voice, but mostly she sounds worried. "And it appears to be getting progressively worse in your case." 

Sighing, Harry runs a hand through his hair. "I'm fine. Really, I am," he says with a weary smile. "I'm just... tired." 

Hermione nods and silently watches him as he takes the chair across from her and pours himself some coffee. 

He does look exhausted, she realises. There are large dark circles under his eyes and his face is as pale as she has ever seen it.

She briefly wonders whether this could have anything to do with Ginny, but soon dismisses that thought. 

She knows that Harry doesn't begrudge Ginny her engagement to Dean. He has yet to show any kind of indication that he's still romantically interested in the girl. 

No, Hermione concludes, there has to be something else wrong, but _what_? 

Harry pours some milk into his coffee and adds a lump of sugar. He stirs the hot beverage, takes a sip, and resists the urge to flinch. He brushed his teeth for a full fifteen minutes earlier and rinsed his mouth extensively with the special cleansing water, and yet the foul taste continues to linger. 

Why did he have to go and kill that rat last night, he wonders. Why did he have to devour it whole—skin, bones, grubby fur, and everything? No wonder that he was sick twice this morning.

Will he ever be able to control these strong predatory instincts? 

He hasn't the faintest idea, but he does find himself with yet another reason to wish that Sirius were still around. He'd be able to help, or at least he would lend an ear and genuinely empathise, without any melodrama or prejudice. 

Harry swallows a sudden lump in his throat. _Bugger._ He's not going to throw up again, is he? 

_Please God, anything but that._ Hermione is already looking at him as though she'd like nothing better than to cart him off to St. Mungo's this very instant, no questions asked. 

He manages another wan smile and it prompts her to ask, "Would you like some toast and marmalade?" 

Predictably, the mention of food sends his stomach churning again. "No," he says quickly, and hopes with every fibre in his body that she won't press the issue or he will be sick again, all over her course notes if he's terribly unlucky. "I'm not really hungry this morning." 

"Oh." 

Frowning, Hermione studies him for a moment. She's tempted to inform him that a lack of appetite is a symptom of depression too, but the sad, defeated look on his face makes her hold her tongue. 

She can tell that something is definitely wrong with her best friend, but she knows him well enough by now to realise that trying to push him into confiding in her won't accomplish anything. 

She can only hope that he'll seek her out as soon as he's ready to talk. 

*******

Around four in the afternoon, Draco awakens from his restless slumber. 

Strange dreams about his mother keep plaguing him, as do terrifying nightmares of his days spent at Hogwarts. 

He rubs his tired eyes and wonders why the past won't leave him be. For three years it has been haunting him now. Shouldn't that be enough? 

When he thinks about it—something he generally avoids doing, but in his weaker moments, he just can't stop himself—the dreams about his mother are the worst by far. 

He rarely sees her anymore, except when she firecalls, and even then, their chats are nothing like they used to be. 

They've drifted apart, the closeness they once enjoyed is gone, and this is something that hurts Draco more than he's willing to admit, if only to himself. 

His parents' stay in Italy was only supposed to be temporary. They would return as soon as the dust had settled, but life has a way of not working out as planned and of making a complete mockery of things if your name happens to be Draco Malfoy. 

If only he could lay his hands on a Time-Turner, the many things he would do differently… 

No, he decides, none of that. That train of thought will get him nowhere and accomplish nothing. 

Besides, he's alive, free and relatively healthy. It could have been far worse. He could have ended up dead like Vince, or in St. Mungo's mental ward like Graham Pritchard. 

Draco sighs, runs a hand through his hair—it's almost at shoulder-length now, but he can't be bothered to have it cut— and slowly climbs out of bed. 

Perhaps he should go for a stroll around the grounds. The weather outside looks nice enough, and the fresh air might help clear his head a little. 

He has been spending too much time indoors again lately, with nothing but his own thoughts for company, and that really isn't the best thing for him. 

True enough, he enjoys his solitude, and he needs it too, but the flipside of the coin is that it has also taught him that silence can be loud and bounce off walls just as much as noise can. When it does, he needs to escape, if only for a little while. 

*******

He can still catch a glimpse of them in the distance. They disappear between the trees, yelling something at each other about an eccentric posh bloke gearing up to give chase.

They're on horseback this time, and Draco wonders who those miscreants think they are and what they're trying to prove by making such spectacles of themselves. 

If only he could Ward the grounds' borders with something to keep out trespassers—something like electrical wiring, only magical and therefore more effective, but the Ministry would never allow anything like that to be used against Muggles. 

Even now, the existence of a wizarding world has to remain a secret for everyone's sake, and Draco can't afford to be the one to expose them all. 

He can't risk doing anything illegal, full stop. 

His family narrowly avoided imprisonment after the war, and even today, there are still people around, important people who are merely waiting in the wings for him to put his first step out of line. 

There is no such thing as 'forgive and forget' for anyone who has never been a Hufflepuff or a Gryffindor. Draco learned as much long ago. 

He lets out a long weary sigh as he looks around and surveys the damage done: broken twigs, torn plants, trampled flowers, and hoof prints everywhere. 

At least none of the animals living on the grounds was harmed. Courtesy of a simple Glamour he cast a few years ago, they're invisible to anyone who has no right to be there. 

Not that Draco particularly cares for those animals. He hasn't gone soft to the point of saving fluffy bunnies, thank you very much. It's simply the principle of the matter. 

A bunch of lowlife poachers shouldn't intrude on his property and steal something from it, not even if their loot happens to be as insignificant as a pheasant or a wood pigeon. 

Irritated, Draco shakes his head and then blinks when he notices an unusual object a few feet away on the ground. 

No, he realises. It's not an object at all. A large bird is lying there motionless. Its pitch-black feathers are a shrill contrast to the green grass below and one of the poor creature's wings is bleeding. 

Damn, Draco thinks. How in the blazes did this happen? 

Did the bird panic at the sight of those riders, lose its sense of direction and fly straight into a tree? Or did those Muggles somehow spot it and use it for target practice? 

They certainly seemed the type who would harm a defenceless animal just for the fun of it, Draco decides. _Ruddy barbarians._

He hunches down next to the bird. It's still alive—thank Merlin—but makes no effort to move. Or is it unable to? 

He sighs deeply as a heavy guilt overwhelms him. He has no idea why he considers himself to be partly responsible, but the fact of the matter remains that a beautiful bird—an eagle from what he can tell—has been badly wounded and that he wasn't able to prevent it. Perhaps what he feels isn't as much guilt as angry frustration at yet another instance of complete powerlessness. 

Draco frowns. Either way, he can't just leave the injured eagle lying there like this. It would no doubt die of hunger and thirst, or get attacked by some larger predator. There are wolves roaming the grounds. Draco sometimes hears them at night, and their howling never fails to unsettle him. 

His mind made up, Draco carefully lifts up the bird, and gently cradling it in his arms, he Apparates back to the Manor. 

*******

Draco furrows his brows in concentration. He doesn't know the first thing about taking care of animals, but he doesn't suppose that applying a mild disinfectant could cause any harm. 

Once he has done that, he soaks a clean, white handkerchief in some fresh water and squeezes a few drops into the eagle's beak. 

To Draco's relief, the bird swallows them down eagerly and shows no signs of fear or makes no move to peck his fingers. 

"Are you hungry?" he asks softly. 

The bird blinks once as if in response. 

Draco snaps his fingers, and within a matter of minutes, a slightly baffled house-elf walks into the room. The creature is carrying a small bowl that's filled to the brim with meat. 

"That should sustain you until morning," Draco says softly, addressing his feathered guest as though the bird can actually understand what he's saying. 

If only he were more knowledgeable about birds. Hopefully there isn't something essential that he's missing here, some injury or other problem that the untrained eye cannot detect. 

Perhaps, he ponders, he ought to call Millicent in the morning. Her brother is something of an expert when it comes to birds of prey, and the two of them train falcons. She'll definitely know what to do, and she's a dear friend, one of the very few he has left, so she won't mind helping. 

Yes, he decides, he'll contact her tomorrow. 

He casts a final long look at the eagle, leaves the room and heads up to his study. 

He's well aware that technically, he shouldn't lock the door behind him. There is no logical reason for doing so. No one ever enters the house uninvited, and even those annoying Muggles never venture this close to the Manor itself.

It's a force of habit, or possibly a ritual. Draco turns the key with conviction. This burden is his and his alone. 

*******

Harry holds his breath and waits for the room to go completely silent. 

He heard Malfoy climb the stairs, probably for another night of writing, and he knows that the elf won't return unless it's summoned. 

If he weren't already in this much pain, Harry could certainly kick himself for his current predicament. Of all the tight spots to have got himself into, he had to get stuck here, wounded and completely at the mercy of his childhood rival. 

He should have known that his little 'peeping Tom' game wouldn't end well. He was bound to get caught eventually, and then he'd have to pay the price for sneaking around. 

Harry braces himself and concentrates, trying desperately to focus despite the sharp, unrelenting pain. 

A few difficult moments later, he's sitting on the desk, human once again, as well as stark naked and shivering from cold. He doesn't understand why he transforms with his glasses firmly on his nose, while his clothes always vanish somewhere along the way. 

He gets up, walks to the nearby sofa, takes the blanket that's lying there, and wraps it tightly around himself. 

He flinches as he realises that his arm hurts as much as his wing did, if not more, but he can't afford to let that slow him down. 

He urgently requires sustenance—Malfoy's best intentions aside, raw bacon really won't do—and he also needs to tell Hermione and the Weasleys that he's fine and that they mustn't worry about him. 

His bare feet ice cold on the marble floor (Funny how there are no carpets down here, Harry thinks), he wanders off in search of the kitchen. 

Thankfully, it isn't hard to find. 

He pushes open the door and grits his teeth at the sharp stabbing pain that follows. His right arm isn't broken, is it? That would be the last thing he needs. 

He briefly toys with the idea of fleeing the Manor, but he knows that is hardly an option. He cannot fly in this condition and he would certainly be spotted in his human form. 

He didn't notice any Wards outside, but there must be a couple around the house, or a few traps set up at the very least. 

He looks around for writing materials and is surprised to find paper and pencils in a kitchen drawer. The Muggle objects look decidedly out of place, but he's hardly complaining. A pencil will be easier to write with than a quill. 

Harry takes a deep breath and with some difficulty—yes, that arm is definitely broken—composes a letter. He keeps it brief. 

Will be gone for a few days, need a bit of a breather. 

Don't worry about me. I'm doing okay and will be back soon. 

Harry

As quietly as he can, he opens a window and calls out to the brown owl that's perched on a nearby tree. 

Confused by the unfamiliar human voice, the bird blinks, but to Harry's relief, soon does as requested. 

With any luck, his letter should arrive at The Burrow soon and thus no one will fret about his absence in the morning. Of course, people might start asking questions about how he managed to leave the house unnoticed in the first place, and why he didn't take a backpack or a suitcase with him, but he'll deal with that eventuality when the time comes. 

For now, he has other things to worry about. 

Once he has stilled his hunger, he quietly tiptoes to the sitting room, transforms back into his eagle shape, and settles down into the makeshift nest Malfoy made him out of silky pillows. 

If eagles could smile, Harry would, widely, and despite his painful wing, he soon drifts off to sleep. 

*******

Millicent Bulstrode hasn't changed much since school, and as she's standing there, tall, chubby, in dull tweed robes and with sensible shoes, Harry decides that she'd probably make an excellent matron. 

He has to ask himself why Malfoy would be associating with the likes of her, though. He used to date girls who were a lot more glamorous, if not necessarily any better looking. 

"That's a black eagle," Millicent says, eyeing Harry sharply. "Curious. You don't see their kind around these parts often, do you?" 

"No," Draco replies. "I suppose not." 

Frowning, Millicent reaches out a hand to examine the bird. 

Harry feels intimidated to his very core, but refrains from making a sound. Even in his Animagus form, he's too proud to allow Malfoy or Bulstrode to see him weak. 

Millicent's large, meaty hands prod between his feathers and all Harry can think is that Malfoy has been far gentler with him. 

"The right wing feels broken to me," Millicent at last concludes after some painful poking. "This bird needs to rest and you should administer it some Skele-Gro, Draco. You do know how to brew that, don't you? Or will you need to order some?" 

"I can brew it," he says simply, glad once more for all those potion books Severus left him. 

"Of course you'll have to be extra careful about the dosage. A bird is hardly—"

A shrill noise in the nearby distance interrupts her explanation. 

"Sorry," Draco says with a small smile. "Firecall, and it could be urgent. I'll be back in a tic." 

Millicent nods. "All right, and there's no need to rush on my account. I have plenty of time." 

As soon as Draco has left the room, Millicent turns to face the bird once more. Her gaze is filled with suspicion, so the blatant accusation that follows is no surprise. 

"You're human, aren't you?"

Harry blinks. He decides there and then that one of the advantages of being a bird has to be that no one expects you to talk. Well, unless you're a parrot, perhaps, but fate hasn't been that cruel to him—thank heavens for small mercies. 

"Well," Millicent continues, her tone unsettlingly even, "if you won't show yourself to me, I shan't insist. Strictly speaking, I could turn you in, of course, but Draco seems genuinely concerned about you, so I won't, for now. But rest assured, whoever you are, if this is some trick, some lurid scheme intended to hurt Draco, I will tear you limb from limb where you stand and when I do so, it won't matter to me in the slightest whether you're a human or a bird."

At that, Draco walks back into the room. "Did you call for me, Millie?" 

Bulstrode doesn't miss a beat. Applying a strong bandage, she replies, "No, but I just told your feathered friend here that if the wing hasn't healed within the week, we'll go and see my brother. He knows far more about birds than I do." 

"Yes," Draco says. "Yes, of course. Thanks for your help." 

"Don't mention it." She gives him a genuine smile before sending another scrutinising glance in Harry's direction. "Well, I'll be off, then. Take care, Draco, and if anything else should come up, you know where to find me, don't you?" 

"Yes, of course. I'll see you out." 

Voices and footsteps fade as Harry waits anxiously. He is already imagining all sorts of nasty repercussions when Draco re-enters the room, but instead the young man walks up to him and gently pets his head. 

"That sounded encouraging, didn't it? We'll have you back to your old self in no time, don't you worry." 

He reaches out to stroke the eagle's feathers and if Harry were a cat, he'd certainly roll over and purr. Who'd have thought that Malfoy was even capable of such gentleness? 

"You're very friendly, aren't you, bird?" Draco remarks. "I wonder if you're someone's lost pet." 

An elf appears with a tray of crackers and places it in front of Harry. 

"Enjoy," Draco says pleasantly. "I have some work to do." 

With that, he walks out of the room and Harry can't help the strong and sudden sense of loss that overwhelms him. 

*******

Later that day, Harry finds himself rudely awakened from a nap. There is some sort of shouting match going on in the adjoining room. 

Malfoy has another Firecall, it seems, and from the sound of things it isn't a terribly pleasant one. 

Harry concentrates, trying to understand what is being said. 

"No, father," Draco speaks in a determined tone. "I'm afraid that such a date would be a pointless waste of everyone's time. Aside from the fact that I greatly enjoy my solitary existence here, if I were ever to marry or to bond with someone, it certainly wouldn't be with—"

"Sweet Merlin!" Lucius' irritated voice booms from wall to wall. "Are you still preoccupied with that ridiculous notion, Draco?" The man lets out a mocking, condescending laugh before he continues, "I thought I had explained all that to you quite thoroughly. This is merely a _phase_ you're going through. Once the right girl comes along, you'll—" 

"Father…" Even without actually seeing him, Harry can tell that Draco is clenching his fists in a desperate attempt to remain calm. "I'm really, truthfully, absolutely not interested in any _girls_. I'm quite positive that I don't..._fancy_... women at all." 

For a long while, a loaded silence hangs in the air. 

Harry is almost afraid to breathe and he's sure that Draco is as well, and then Lucius snaps, "None of that is even remotely relevant here! The fact remains that our family requires an heir, so you will marry and do as you are told, you impertinent brat!" 

A crackling sound indicates that the communication has been broken off, and from his spot in the drawing room, Harry can hear Draco choke back a sob. 

At the same time, Harry realises that his own heart is racing. He had no idea about Draco's preferences. He certainly wouldn't have guessed back in their school days. 

Malfoy was never devoid of female attention at Hogwarts. The way Pansy Parkinson had been drooling all over him, for instance, had been a nauseating sight to behold. 

Harry hears Draco bolt up the stairs. He suddenly gets a strong urge to go after him, to comfort him and to confide in him that he isn't the only one who…

But that's not exactly feasible—not here, not now, and not like this. 

He's just a poor, injured bird. 

*******

An hour later, Harry decides that he really can't leave matters be. He needs to do something. 

Unable to fly upstairs, he carefully hops instead, silently lamenting the steep staircase all the way. 

Of course, he is well aware that making his way up the steps would be a lot easier in his human form, but he can't afford to get caught. 

When he wobbles into the bedroom, he notices the open door. 

Hearing the running water, he knows that he should probably stop right there, or better yet, turn back altogether.

Still something drives him on. Is it curiosity or Gryffindor recklessness, perhaps? He has no idea, but he keeps moving closer until he sees him. 

Malfoy is taking a shower. His back is turned and Harry can't refrain from staring at that lithe body with those slim, muscular legs, and the drops of water gliding down smooth, impossibly pale skin. 

_God, when did Malfoy become so…?_

Harry quickly averts his gaze, glad that birds don't blush. 

He has to admit that his presence here is all kinds of inappropriate and that he really should leave, but he finds that he's unable to. It's almost as though he's rooted to the spot. 

'Get the hell out of here,' Harry silently admonishes himself. 'Now—this instant—before he notices you.'

It's already too late. Draco senses another presence in the room and turns around. 

Harry looks at the man's face and really-absolutely-_definitely_ at nothing else. _Good Lord!_

"You weren't worried about me, were you?" Draco says, oblivious and smiling. "How did you get up here anyway? You really shouldn't be flying with that wing. And did you pry the bandage off again?" He shakes his head. "Daft, stubborn bird; you'll only make it worse, you realise. You're really not doing yourself any favours by acting like some heedless, self-destructive Gryffindor."

Harry gets the sudden urge to defend his old House, but that great burst of indignation doesn't make him feel any less guilty for what he just did. Honestly, has he become some creepy, disgusting voyeur now? 

Draco turns off the taps, steps out of the shower, towels himself dry and puts on a fluffy bathrobe. 

Harry sits there motionless until gentle hands, pick him up, carry him back to the bedroom and put him down in a soft, comfortable armchair. 

"Now stay put while I put your bandage on again," Draco says firmly, "and then you have to rest, you silly thing, or you might never get well. You wouldn't do that to me, would you, now that we're getting along so splendidly?" 

Harry silently thanks any deity that might be listening that birds never shed any tears either. 

*******

Perched on the back of the armchair Harry watches over Malfoy as he sleeps. 

The young man looks innocent, almost childlike in slumber, and Harry finds the sight both endearing and strange. 

He has never seen his former rival this unguarded before, and he is very pleased to note that Malfoy is peacefully sleeping at last and this at only two in the morning. 

Does that mean he's feeling better, Harry wonders, or is he simply knackered after that heated argument with his father? 

The more Harry thinks about it, the more Lucius Malfoy's attitude confuses him. 

The man loves his son. He proved as much during the war. Then why does he still act like a cruel, narrow-minded bastard about something like this? Is carrying on the Malfoy line that important to him? Would he truly force Draco into an arranged marriage? 

Harry sighs. Eager to do something more helpful than merely sit there, he transforms back into his human shape. 

He kneels down next to the bed and runs two fingers through Draco's hair—carefully and gently, so as not to wake him. 

A soft sigh slips from between the sleeping man's lips. The contented sound leaves Harry's heart aching with longing.

*******

Harry can't catch a wink of sleep that night. 

It's starting to dawn on him that he's sinking deeper and deeper into murky waters as his deceit continues to grow. 

Part of him wants to leave, part of him knows that he _should_ if he has any sense left, but the thought of returning to The Burrow fills him with dread. 

There's really nothing or no one waiting for him there anymore. 

Ginny is happy with Dean, Hermione and Ron have each other, and George is devoted to the store he now runs with Luna. 

They hardly need him around. 

Besides, Malfoy has been taking good care of him and from what Harry has seen, the man can really use a friend right now, even if it's just a feathered one. 

One good turn deserves another, or so Harry tells himself, though in his heart of hearts he can't deny the real reason why he'd rather not leave. 

He is becoming rather attached to Malfoy. 

He might be falling for him, even. 

Perhaps he already has. 

*******

After seven days, the eagle's wing still shows no signs of healing. 

Draco supposes that makes sense, seeing how the blasted bird always manages to get the bandage off. 

Once more, he requests Millicent's assistance, though his reluctance to do so almost matches the grave concern he feels for his little friend. 

Funny, he thinks, how helpful it has been to have that bird around. 

Draco had heard them before, of course, those claims that the presence of a companion animal can lessen depression and stress and aid with other problems too. He always dismissed them as worthless, however, and passed them off as the sort of nonsense _The Quibbler_ would report about on slow news days, but now… 

Ever since the eagle's arrival, he has been sleeping much better, and his nightmares are gone. 

Only the other night, he dreamed about someone stroking his hair in a soothing, loving way that reminded him of his mother tucking him in when he was still a child. 

The experience was so vivid that even though he longed to open his eyes to see who was touching him with such tenderness, he thought the better of it. He didn't want to accidentally wake up and find himself shoved back into a harsh, lonely reality. 

His life will be even lonelier without the bird. 

Draco's stomach plummets at the realisation, but he's well aware that he has no option but to get the wing mended. It must be causing a lot of discomfort and pain. 

He silently looks on as Millicent places the bird in a large basket. 

"No need to come along," she says offhandedly. "You know how strange my brother acts around people he doesn't know very well. Don't worry. I'll be back in no time." 

"Right," Draco says, struggling to hide his ever-growing anxiety. "Thanks." 

"I'll catch you later, Draco," Millicent says.

She takes the bird away and Draco can't help the odd clenching in his gut. He hopes with all his heart that his little friend won't end up handicapped for life, but even more vehemently, he hopes that Millicent will bring him back soon. 

Then he shakes his head. He has gone soft at last.

At least his father isn't around to witness it. 

*******

Harry never gets to see Millicent's brother. 

Instead, when the lid of the basket opens, he discovers that he has been brought into a small kitchen, and Bulstrode is glaring down at him in challenge. 

"Right," she says, lifting him up and placing him on one of the kitchen stools. "I think it's about time you showed me your true self, don't you?" 

Harry remains perfectly still. He realises that he should have probably worked out an escape strategy of some kind, but unfortunately, that thought didn't even occur to him until now. 

Pretty daft when he stops to think about it, but then he used to rely on Hermione for this sort of thing, didn't he? She always had all the answers, whereas he just rushed right into danger and hoped for the best. 

Harry braces himself. He doesn't know Bulstrode that well—or at all, really—but he hasn't failed to notice how protective she is of Draco. He can only hope that the woman won't do too much damage. He doesn't even have his wand with him, for Merlin's sake! 

"No?" She gives a humourless laugh. "Very well, your choice. It's back into the basket with you, and then we're off to London. I have a friend at the Ministry, you realise; a very _powerful_ friend." 

She pauses meaningfully and Harry holds his breath. 

"Do you have any idea what the current penalties are for being an unregistered Animagus? Given the tightened security measures that were introduced during the war, people like you are automatically suspects of espionage. Yes, even today. Funny, that. I imagine some bigwig at the Ministry forgot to change the law back after old Volders was defeated." 

There is another brief pause, before she adds, her expression venomous, "That's three years in Azkaban you're looking at, mate. So, all things considered, wouldn't it be smarter to just reveal your identity to me, instead? I might be more… merciful, possibly even sympathetic. Draco seems to have grown quite fond of you, at any rate. Who knows? Perhaps I'll even let him keep you." 

She takes a step backwards, grabs something from the back of a chair, and flings the item in Harry's direction. 

Upon inspection, it's a fluffy pink bathrobe and it's huge. 

"Kindly cover yourself after your transformation," she says with a sneer. "I have no desire to see anyone's private bits." 

Harry flinches inwardly. So first she'll humiliate him and then she'll wring his neck. _Brilliant._ Once a Slytherin, always a Slytherin, he decides wryly. 

Overcome with dread, Harry shuts his eyes and concentrates. 

He'd rather not do this, but it's not as though he still has any say in the matter. Under no circumstances does he want to risk a confrontation with the Ministry. They might decide to go easy on him, but the whole Malfoy issue is still bound to raise some awkward questions that he'd prefer to avoid for as long as possible. 

Human again, he keeps his eyes closed, reaches out in the direction of the pink monstrosity, and wraps it tightly around himself. He feels horribly exposed in more ways than he can count, and his right arm is throbbing with pain again. 

Finally, he gathers the courage to look at the woman standing in front of him. 

Her body is shaking with fury. "Harry Potter," she says, spitting out his name like every syllable taints her tongue. "I should have known." 

"This isn't what you think," he is quick to protest. "I—" 

"Oh, but I dare say that it's exactly what I think," she snaps. "That manipulative Machiavellian mongrel taught you well, didn't he?" 

Harry frowns. "What?" 

"Dumbledore," she clarifies, shaking her head in utter disgust. "You can count yourself extremely lucky, Potter, that you're a renowned war hero. Much as it would gratify me to hex you within an inch of your miserable life, you're certainly not worth the inevitable Wizengamot hassle afterwards. Not to mention that your little fan club at the Ministry would probably let you get off scot-free as well." She gives him a malicious sneer. "Some people have all the luck, don't they?"

Harry swallows. Bulstrode's words sting like acid, but he can understand where the woman's need to lash out comes from. 

Malfoy is her friend and Harry deceived him. Of course she would be livid. 

"So what happens next?" he asks in a small voice. 

"I'm going to drop you off at St. Mungo's," she says. 

Harry's relieved breath hitches in his throat when she adds, "And then I'm heading back to Wiltshire to tell Draco exactly what you've been up to. This is not over, Potter. Not by a long shot." 

*******

Millicent keeps her word, on both counts, and not before long, the truth surfaces with an ear-shattering bang. 

Seething with rage, Draco Apparates to St. Mungo's and strides straight up to Harry's room. 

"Number two hundred and five," Millicent said. 

Draco throws the door open without knocking.

From his hospital bed, a startled Harry Potter gazes up in horror. 

"Just what the bloody hell did you think you were playing at?" Draco yells. 

"I-I—" Harry swallows hard. His arm hurts and soon his head will as well if Malfoy continues shouting. 

"Yes?" Draco's arms are crossed in front of his chest and he looks every bit like the angry teenager he once was. "I'm all ears, _Potter_." 

"I wanted to get to know you better," Harry mutters just loud enough for Draco to hear. 

Draco blinks. "You— what? That has to be the daftest thing to have ever come out of your stupid mouth! After all these years? Ever considered sending an Owl? Inviting me over for tea, even?"

Draco starts pacing the room. "No," he adds, "of course not. That would have been too simple. There had to be some ridiculous, harebrained scheme involved, which of course begs the question why—" 

Harry frowns. "Why... what?" 

"Why would you even want to try to get to know me? The very concept is ridiculous. You've hated me for so many years." 

"I don't—" Harry begins, but Draco isn't to be swayed. 

"Did you come over to gloat, is that it?" he continues, aware that he's ranting but unable to stop. "Did you make a little detour to poke fun at poor Malfoy, locked up all alone in his big mansion?" 

"No, I never meant to—" 

Whatever Harry intends to say next is cut off by the arrival of a nurse bolting into the room. 

"What is all this commotion?" the woman enquires in a severe tone. "You're supposed to be resting, Mister Potter. All this excitement can't possibly be good for you; and as for you, Sir..."

"Never mind about me. I was just on my way out," Draco deadpans.

He stalks out of the room, straight past an astonished Hermione Granger, and too furious to Apparate, he strides out of the building; never pausing, never looking back.

*******

Three uneventful months pass. 

Draco's nights are lonelier than ever and his days drag on, endless, monotonous and pointless in their ennui. 

Even though his anger hasn't yet faded completely, he has to admit that this wretched loneliness is far worse. 

Certainly, the way Potter acted was a form of deception, a kind of betrayal even, but at the same time, what happened might also mean a second chance, a unique opportunity to finally set right a wrong from long ago. 

When they were both eleven, Draco badly wanted to be Harry's friend, but he went about it all wrong and a painful, embarrassing rejection followed. 

Throughout the years, Draco often regretted his horrible faux-pas, especially as he grew older and began to realise how obnoxious he must have sounded back then, but it wasn't as though he could apologise—he also had his pride, after all—so he turned every pang of regret into bitter resentment. 

When he looks back on those days, he concludes that he never felt any true hatred towards Harry Potter. It might have been envy, and it was definitely frustration because Potter never gave him the attention he was convinced he deserved. 

Draco was young and stupid back then. 

They both were. 

Potter has obviously changed for the better. He seemed genuinely concerned, and Draco suddenly wonders whether that vivid dream was even a dream at all. 

Did Potter stroke his hair? And if he did, shouldn't that bother him in some way? 

Probably. But it doesn't. 

All Draco can think is that it was pleasant and that the affection behind the gesture felt real. 

Draco sighs. Bird or man, he doesn't suppose that it matters in the end. The point is that he misses him badly. 

Draco takes a deep breath, picks up a quill and begins to write. 

Perhaps the time has come to turn over a new leaf. 

*******

  
_Fly through the open living room window. _

Clothing will be provided for you in the drawing room. 

*******

Three days later, the black eagle appears on the windowsill just as the note instructed. 

Draco is most relieved, not only to see 'his' bird again, but also to discover that it has made a full recovery. 

He isn't about to let Harry Potter know this, however, so his greeting is limited to a dryly uttered, "You certainly took your sweet time, didn't you?" 

The eagle spreads its wings to fly onwards to the drawing room, but Draco speaks again: "Stop! Hold it right there." 

Baffled, Harry obeys and hops onto the sideboard instead. 

"Thank you," Draco says, an unreadable expression on his face. "Now change." 

The bird blinks. 

"You'll change right here in front of me, Potter. Seems only fitting, wouldn't you agree? Given those vile voyeuristic tendencies of yours." 

Harry cringes inwardly. His gut feeling tells him to take off again—this very instant—and to fly as far away from Wiltshire as his wings will carry him. 

What was he even thinking, coming here? Perhaps he has inadvertently set himself up for a night of severe and constant humiliation. 

Executing that kind of revenge would certainly be right up Malfoy's street. Slytherins don't necessarily get mad, at least not as far as anyone can tell, but you can bet your last Galleon that they will get even. 

"Well?" Draco crosses his arms and eyes the bird expectantly. "I was hoping that you might get on with it at some point in the current millennium." 

Harry hesitates for another moment. Standing stark naked in front of a former enemy isn't terribly clever, especially when you don't have any proper means of defending yourself. 

For an eagle, carrying a wand is no option. Harry made several attempts, but every single one failed miserably, not in the least because the wand itself wasn't exactly cooperative either.

He hopes that Draco isn't actually intending to do him any harm, and that he only wants to make a statement. 

'Well, it's not like I didn't bring this on myself anyway,' Harry decides grimly, and preparing himself for the worst, he transforms back into his human shape. 

During what must be the longest two minutes of Harry's young life thus far, Draco silently looks him up and down, before finally remarking with a devious smirk, "Right. I suppose this makes us even. Go put some clothes on, why don't you?" 

Harry lets out a relieved breath. He quickly heads for the drawing room, before Malfoy gets the chance to change his mind. 

*******

Seated at the dining-room table, Harry half-expects to be served raw meat or a bowl of wriggling maggots. 

Fortunately, his host hasn't taken his revenge plot quite that far. The starter is tomato soup with crispy bread rolls. 

"We'll have salmon for our second course," Draco announces. "I'd planned to ask the elves to prepare roast chicken initially, but perhaps poultry wouldn't have been such a good idea, everything taken into account." 

"Er- no," Harry agrees. Ever since he became an Animagus, he hasn't been able to stomach any chicken or turkey. 

He no longer touches eggs either, much to Molly Weasley's surprise. Harry used to love to start the day with a large mushroom omelette, and hers were always worth getting up at seven for. 

From beneath his lashes, Harry studies Draco carefully and realises that the man's demeanour remains defensive; not that Harry can really blame him for that. 

Harry did trick him, though doing so had never been his intention. He wasn't supposed to get shot down on the Manor's grounds and be discovered by the proprietor. His original plan had been innocent enough—to keep his distance and watch quietly. 

_Yes, because stalking makes so much more sense and is considerably more acceptable, too,_ a mocking voice that sounds uncannily like Hermione's rings through Harry's head. 

She wasn't impressed when she found out what he'd been up to, and promptly gave him the lecture of a lifetime, but at least she kept her promise and didn't breathe a word about this to any of the others. Ron wouldn't understand, and Molly would be awfully worried.

If he's entirely honest about the matter, Harry has to admit that he doesn't regret the week he spent at Malfoy Manor, though. He was able to experience a tender, caring side of Draco that he never would have been aware of, otherwise. 

"For how long has this been going on?" Draco's question comes out of nowhere and fills Harry with confusion. 

"Er— Pardon?"

"Were you already an Animagus when we were still at Hogwarts? Is that how you were able to pinpoint where everyone was all the time?" 

"No," Harry replies, slightly stunned at Draco's ignorance about the Marauders' Map. "It um, all began last September—quite by coincidence, really. I was running from some reporters, Skeeter's lot again, and I was too stressed to be able to Apparate safely. So I just kept on running until I turned a corner and found myself in a cul-de-sac and facing a huge brick wall. I was sure I was trapped, but then suddenly… Well, I sort of sprouted wings and flew over the wall." 

"How terribly convenient for you." Draco doesn't sound at all impressed. 

"Yeah, I-I guess."

"Funny, though," he adds with a slight sneer. "Most people have to work very hard at being an Animagus. You know, practice constantly to get the transformation absolutely perfect. But of course Harry Potter isn't like ordinary mortals. Everything just comes naturally to him. I'll bet all you have to do is snap your fingers and all of the world's riches just land in your lap, don't they?" 

Hearing those bitter words, Harry suppresses a sigh. He had been hoping that they would be past the stage of throwing petty insults by now. 

But then he's no longer just an eagle, and Draco… 

Draco is still Malfoy underneath. 

Harry was planning to explain to him how good it feels to fly with one's own wings. 

He didn't tell Hermione about that part. He never mentioned the exhilarating sense of freedom he experiences when he's soaring through the night skies. 

Becoming an Animagus has helped Harry in many ways. If he hadn't discovered his ability to turn into an eagle, perhaps he'd currently spend his nights writing and reminiscing, too. Or he might have taken that desk job at the Ministry and for the next forty years, he'd be wilting away amidst the cobwebs of some dreary office.

Still, in hindsight he was probably naïve to presume that Draco and himself could ever be...friends or anything even remotely like it. 

"So what happens now?" Harry asks. All of a sudden, he feels like he's fourteen again, except for the not so little detail that Malfoy is notably scarier than Cho Chang ever was, and a lot more precious too in some topsy-turvy fashion Harry is only now coming to terms with. 

"You tell me, Potter," comes Draco's snippy response. "You're the one who started all this nonsense."

'No,' Harry decides. 'Never mind fourteen. We've skipped that and regressed straight back to age five.' 

He suppresses the strong urge to get up and stomp out of the room, and the only reason he controls himself is because he really doesn't want to leave things unresolved like this. 

"All right, Malfoy. What do you want from me?" he asks, this time opting for the direct approach. "Why did you invite me here? Did you want an apology? An explanation?" 

Draco puts his fork down and folds his hands together. "You were my constant companion for a week," he says. "You followed me around everywhere and watched over me as I slept."

"Yes." 

"What on earth possessed you, Potter?" 

"I-I don't know." 

"You don't know." Draco sighs. "I should loathe and despise you all over again. I hope you realise that. Why the hell did you have to do this to me anyway? Do you still hate me that much?"

Harry blinks. 

Draco continues, a bitter edge to his voice, "There I was, thinking that I'd found a friend, even if it was just a stupid bird, only to discover a few days later that the whole thing had actually been a sham. That was a foul, loathsome trick even for the likes of you, Potter!" 

"I never—" Harry shakes his head and sighs. "I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you. Honestly, I didn't." 

For the longest time, the two young men stare at one another in silence, until finally something passes between them. It feels a lot like understanding, mingled with something else. 

They're not that different, in the end—both of them are lonely, lost and desperate in more or less equal proportions. 

"I'm sorry," Harry says again. "I should have…said something sooner, revealed to you who I was before…things got this far out of hand." 

"Yes." Draco takes a small sip from his wine. "That would have been significantly less deceitful." 

Harry swallows hard. His cheeks are flushed as he fiddles with his napkin and asks, "So er— what you said about having found a friend, that wasn't necessarily… Well, what I mean to say is, I do still want to be your friend. If you'd still like me to be, that is." 

Draco's reaction is hesitant. "Why were you watching me in the first place?" he asks, for the simple reason that he needs to know. If Harry's actions involved some kind of Ministry surveillance, a friendship with the man is automatically out of the question.

"Well, like I said at the hospital, you still intrigued me."

"Why?" 

Harry shrugs. "I'm not sure, actually. Maybe I felt that there remained some sort of… unfinished business between us." 

Draco raises a puzzled eyebrow. "Unfinished business?" 

"Well, yeah. We barely exchanged two words when I returned your wand to you, and a few months later when we were back at school, we ignored each other for most of the time, and well…" He pauses. "I'm not quite sure how to put this. I didn't miss our fighting, heaven forbid, but I did find it kind of odd that we never—why did we suddenly start going out of our way to avoid each other?" 

Draco considers that question for a moment before answering it with one of his own. "What would you have liked to talk about?" 

Harry shrugs. "Nothing in particular… School stuff, Potions, why you'd suddenly dropped out of your Quidditch team." 

"Quidditch." Draco smirks. "So you missed knocking me about on the pitch, did you?" 

"Um…" Harry coughs nervously. "No. It was just… weird. I wondered for a long while if you'd sustained some war injury I didn't know about." 

Draco shakes his head. "No war injury," he says dismissively and seeing Harry's expectant expression continues, "Are you sure that you actually want me to get into this? It's hardly the sort of stuff campfire tales are made of." 

Harry nods. "Please."

"Right. Well, then. The only reason I started playing Quidditch in the first place was so I could beat you at something. Don't get me wrong, I like the sport and I love to fly, but being up there in all sorts of weather with the possibility of injury every single time… Sorry, but that definitely wasn't my cup of tea. So when the war was over and you had been victorious in every way imaginable, I finally resigned myself to the fact that I would never be able to beat you at anything." 

Harry opens his mouth, but Draco holds up a hand. 

"No, kindly let me finish. I suppose what it boiled down to was that rather than to try and best you at everything under the sun—a habit that rarely ended well anyhow, as I'd learned from experience—I decided to concentrate instead on what I enjoyed doing. It made my life a lot more pleasant, I assure you. And as for why I purposely avoided you in our seventh year…" 

"Yes?" 

Draco smiles. "Well, I'm sure you didn't fail to notice that the Wea- I mean, Ronald Weasley never let an opportunity pass him by to provoke either Millicent, Blaise or myself." 

Even though he's no longer as close to Ron as he used to be, Harry is still quick to defend his best friend. "He was still very upset about Fred's death at the time. He was"—Harry chooses his words carefully—"kind of difficult to handle sometimes. His whole family had it pretty tough back then. Not that I'm saying that this excuses the way he kept taunting you and your friends. It's not like you three were responsible for what happened to Fred or anything."

"_Quite._ So anyway, the majority of my final year I ended up spending in the library. I assume Granger must have mentioned seeing me there on more than one occasion." 

"Yeah. She did." 

"So, does that satisfy your curiosity, Potter?" 

"I-I guess. It's just that I wondered about you." 

Draco smirks. "Apparently." 

"No. I—" Once more, Harry fiddles with his napkin. "What I'm trying to say is that I never stopped wondering about you these last couple of years, and once I realised that I could fly, I thought I'd look you up, check how life had been treating you, that sort of thing." 

"I see." Draco sneers. He can't decide whether he should be annoyed with Harry for being his sticky-beak Gryffindor self or flattered as well as mildly amused at finally having gained the man's attention, no matter how belatedly. 

Harry knocks his glass of Cabernet back in one swift gulp, before he gathers the courage to speak again. "Your father—" 

"What about him?" Draco snaps. He is feeling considerably less agreeable again. Whenever someone outside his family or immediate circle of friends mentions Lucius, a wave of unpleasantness is bound to surface. 

"You, um—" Harry clears his throat. "When the two of you spoke recently, I overheard you mention to him that…"

"Yes?" 

"You told him that you're gay." 

Draco crosses his arms, irritated at discovering another breach of his privacy. "If my sexual orientation is a problem for you, Potter," he challenges, "then why on earth did you even bother coming here today?" 

"No," Harry says quickly. "No, it's not a problem at all. You see, the thing is, I sort of… Well, I swing both ways myself, and I thought it would be only fair of me to mention it." 

Draco hasn't a clue how to reply to that, though he can't but wonder how the one and only saviour of the wizarding world has so far succeeded to keep that little titbit from being published in _The Daily Prophet._ 

"Anyway," Harry goes on, "I don't know what you're planning to do with the rest of your life, and I'm well aware that it's none of my business either if you do decide to get married, but…"

"Yes? Go on." 

"Well, my point is that you shouldn't pay any attention to your father, at least not about things like that. At the end of the day, it's your life, not his." 

Draco's eyes widen. He almost chuckles at the absurdity of it all, but manages to control himself when he realises that in his own bumbling, awkward way, Potter is only trying to help. Some things never change.

"Anyway, I know this will be strange, um, Draco, given the kind of history we share, and well, I don't even know how you feel about me or if you'd ever consider me a friend, but I have to confess that you've been on my mind constantly since Bulstrode dropped me off at St. Mungo's." 

At that, Harry rakes a hand through his hair, suddenly feeling terribly nervous. Perhaps he has revealed too much, but when all is said and done, he supposes that honesty is still a better policy than keeping more secrets.

Draco sighs. He reaches out to ruffle Harry's hair, just for a moment, until he realises what he's doing and pulls his hand back so quickly one would think he scalded it. 

"Well, Harry," he at last says, briefly considering how foreign that name feels rolling off his tongue. "I have to admit that I've been giving that week you spent here a lot of thought as well. Once I was over most of the anger, I concluded that… Well, not to put too fine a point on it, I have grown rather fond of you, or of the bird you become when you transform, at any rate, though technically, that's still you." He smiles in an uncharacteristically sheepish manner and adds, "Do forgive me if I find this whole situation rather confusing." 

'At least it's not just me, then,' Harry thinks, but remains silent. Draco isn't done talking. 

"Now, regarding your other question: No, I don't intend to marry, at least not to some woman, and as far as my father is concerned…" Draco takes a deep breath. "The man put himself in exile. Of his own volition, I might add, and in a fit of extreme panic he also signed the deeds of the estate and the Gringotts' vaults over to me directly after the war. Thus, he has no means of forcing or, as would be his style, coercing me into doing anything I have no desire of doing. Though I suspect he'll keep trying to yell me into submission for quite awhile yet, until he runs out of steam or until mother finally intervenes, whichever comes first." 

"Oh." 

Draco smiles. "His attitude is regrettable, and I won't lie to you, it hurts me quite a bit, but hopefully he'll come around some day and see things my way." 

"Yeah," Harry mumbles. "I hope so too."

"At least mother is supportive," Draco adds in an obvious attempt to lighten the mood. "She was a little stunned when I first told her, but she never held it against me." 

"Good," Harry says. His heart is hammering in his chest, his palms are clammy, and he doesn't even understand why. This is going a lot better than he anticipated, so why is he still so nervous? 

"Do you want to stay the night?" Draco suddenly asks. 

Harry drops his fork. "Wh-what?" he blurts, obvious shock written all over his face. 

"I didn't mean it like that," Draco says quickly. "I wasn't propositioning you. It's just that you have stayed here before, and I was wondering if you'd like to do so again." 

"Right." Harry can't decide whether to be disappointed or relieved at that explanation, though he's leaning strongly towards disappointment. "So would you like me to change into an eagle again so I can watch over you?" he asks. 

Draco shrugs a little too nonchalantly. "Whatever you prefer." 

"Oh." Harry's voice is unusually small. "All right." 

*******

Dressed in one of Draco's pyjama bottoms, Harry walks into the large bedroom. His overwhelming anxiety is apparent in every slow, hesitant step he takes. 

He hasn't a clue what is expected of him or what he may expect in return, but the thought of sharing a bed with Malfoy is rather outlandish, not to mention a lot more tempting than it ought to be.

Perhaps he should have opted for changing into his Animagus form after all. That would have made this whole situation a lot less complicated. 

Or he could have asked to be put up in a guest room, but that option didn't really occur to him until now, and of course, he wouldn't have been able to watch over Draco that way either.

"What did you have in mind?" he finally asks, growing increasingly nervous with each passing second.

Draco climbs into the king size bed and shrugs. "I don't know about you, but I could do with some sleep. It's been quite a day, hasn't it?" 

"Yeah," Harry says. "Sleep. Right. Sure." He coughs awkwardly before joining Draco in bed. 

'So now what?' he wonders. 

Nothing, apparently. Draco rolls over on his side to face the wall away from Harry and says, "Good night." The words sound almost dismissive. 

Harry frowns. "Er- Malfoy?" he whispers.

Draco turns over again. "Yes?" 

Unable to verbally express his longing, never mind all those other emotions that are running through his head, Harry leans down and kisses him—lightly and for no longer than a second—before he pulls back again, overcome with doubt. 

Perhaps, he considers, he shouldn't have done that either, at least not without gaining Draco's permission first. Just because he has developed certain feelings for this man doesn't necessarily mean that those feelings are also reciprocated, and furthermore, the platonic love one feels for an animal companion is a far cry from what lovers share.

Draco rolls onto his back. "Are you trying to seduce me now, Potter?" he asks dryly, folding his arms behind his head. "Is there no limit to your brazen cheek?" 

"Er, I-I'm—" Harry stammers. "I'm sorry if that was—"

"Don't be daft." With a grin, Draco sits up and places both his hands on Harry's shoulders. "I was only joking. Potter, Potter, Potter, you've always been so conveniently easy to tease."

Before Harry can think of a retort, Draco leans up farther, pulls him down with him, and then their mouths meet again. 

Long, lingering kisses make Harry's toes curl, not to mention their effect on other places. He can feel Draco's hands exploring his bare back and long, nimble fingers leave goose bumps as they roam. 

Harry's heart is racing. He wonders how he can still breathe. Each exhalation sounds like a desperate sigh. He gazes down to see Draco staring back at him with flushed cheeks and a huge smile. 

"Er-" Harry begins, suddenly feeling slightly embarrassed, "I should probably tell you that, um, I've never done this before." 

Draco blinks. "You're a virgin?" he asks, incredulous and just a little amused at the thought. 

Harry blushes. "No, not… that. What I mean is: I've never done anything like this with another bloke before." 

"Ah." 

"H-have you?" Harry's eyes are wide as he anticipates the answer. He hopes with all his heart that it will be a simple 'no'.

Draco smiles. "Well, I messed around with Blaise in our seventh year, but it wasn't very serious." 

Harry takes a deep breath. He's about to enquire further, but Draco saves him the trouble.

"The two of us never got around to shagging, if you insist I get specific about it." 

"Oh." 

Draco shakes his head. A speechless Harry Potter is definitely an adorable sight to behold, and moreover, it's one that makes him uncharacteristically eager to share more about himself. "The only person I ever went all the way with," he continues, "was Pansy. It wasn't exactly what one might call a roaring success, though"—he smiles wryly at the memory—"and I suppose that was when it finally clicked with me that women do nothing for me, sexually."

He runs his right hand along Harry's cheek and asks in a soft tone, "May I touch you?" 

"Y-you are touching me, aren't you?" 

Draco chuckles. "That's not what I meant, you prat." He lightly brushes two fingers over Harry's groin. "I meant: may I _touch_ you?" 

"Oh." Harry's breath hitches. "Y-yeah. S-sure." 

"Are you absolutely certain? It's going to be awfully difficult trying to go back to being just friends if we've… well."

"I don't… want… to be… just friends," Harry manages.

"Ah. Good. I was hoping you'd say that."

Harry blinks. Never did he get the impression, not for one single moment, that Draco might be interested in him, not like this. "Why didn't you—" he begins, but the words get stuck in his throat when Draco nibbles at his ear and then plants a trail of hot, wet kisses down his neck.

"Why didn't I what?" Draco's mouth moves lower, and he lightly brushes his thumbs over Harry's hardening nipples

"Why didn't you ever mention that you—oh _God_, Malfoy—fancied me?"

Draco looks up from his ministrations and states flatly, "Not to dampen the mood or anything, but one brusque rejection from you was quite sufficient to last me a lifetime."

"Oh."

"So I decided to wait and leave it up to you to make the first move." His grin is smug and victorious. "Which you did. Now lie down onto your back. I'm nowhere near done with you yet."

Without a word, Harry does as he's asked. It makes no sense not to. He wants this. He has wanted it ever since that day he saw Draco take a shower, or perhaps he only realised it then and this desire has been simmering for much longer than that. 

Draco gently frees Harry's cock from the confines of the pyjama bottoms. He is pleased to find it fully erect, with a small drop of pre-come already glistening at the tip. Slowly, he wraps his fingers around the shaft and begins to stroke. 

Harry emits a deep, throaty moan. 

"Tell me if you'd like me to do something else," Draco whispers. He leans down and kisses Harry's forehead, cheeks and finally his mouth. 

"No, this…this," Harry says in between kisses, "is perfect, but—" 

Draco pauses. "But what?" 

"How about you?" 

Draco's smile lights up his eyes, giving them a silvery glow. "Be my guest," he replies in the driest tone he can manage. He tries to act casual about it all, but that smile is a dead giveaway. 

"Right." Harry reaches out a hand and slips it under the waistband of Draco's pyjamas. 

Holding Draco's cock feels foreign and slightly odd, but it's a good, exciting kind of odd. Harry quickly moves his hand up and down, and a hiss escapes from Draco's lips. 

"Easy, Potter." 

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" Harry asks, worried. 

"No." Draco flicks his tongue over Harry's left nipple. "Quite the opposite. Just take it slow, would you? It's been awhile since anyone— Well, my point being, I'd like to last a little longer than a few seconds if at all possible." 

"Right. Sorry." 

"And there's really no need to apologise." 

"Sorry. Um, I mean—" 

"_Quite._" 

Draco starts pumping Harry's dick again, and Harry mirrors his movements one by one. 

Soon the two men are perfectly in sync, stroking one another to completion and sharing hungry, needy kisses until Harry says, his voice rough and urgent, "Draco, I-I'm going to—" 

Any noises he makes as his climax hits him are muffled by another thorough kiss. 

Spent, Harry sinks back into the pillow and closes his eyes. It suddenly hits him like a ton of bricks that he just got off with Draco Malfoy, and that he has never felt so good in his whole life. 

"H-Harry?" It almost sounds like a plea. "Don't stop yet." 

Harry's eyes open wide. "Sorry," he says awkwardly, embarrassed for letting his mind wander at time like this. 

He curls his fingers tightly around Draco's cock and moves his hand up and down; faster and rougher than before.

"Yes, that's it, Harry. Just… perfect."

A few more long, hard pulls, and Draco shudders from head to toe. Moaning loudly, he comes all over Harry's right hand. 

He collapses back onto the bed, muttering "wow" or "fuck" or some other monosyllabic word that means very little and yet conveys so much, and waits for his breathing to steady.

Harry readjusts his glasses. Taking them off would have been more practical, but he didn't want to miss even a second of this. That look on Malfoy's face when he came… he'd definitely like to see it more often. _This will happen again, won't it? _

He turns to face Draco and the tender smile he receives melts his heart.

"I don't know about you, Harry, but after all that, I'm pretty knackered." 

Harry chuckles. "Yeah. Shouldn't we clean up the mess we made, though?"

Draco stifles a yawn. "Just cast a spell. That's what wizards do, in case you've already forgotten."

"I er- don't have my wand with me," Harry replies. Once again it occurs to him how careless that actually is. This evening could have ended on a far less pleasant note, and he would have been powerless to defend himself.

"Here." Draco retrieves something from the bedside table. "You can use mine. I believe the two of you are already acquainted." 

Harry nods slowly. It feels strange to be holding that wand again, and it's even more bizarre to be using it for this purpose. Still, it's no use pondering on the past. "Thanks," he says and casts a thorough cleaning spell. 

While Draco puts the wand back, Harry removes his glasses and places them on the bedside table. 

Harry wonders what will happen now. If it were up to him, they'd snuggle for a while and fall asleep in each other's arms, and perhaps he'll suggest precisely that, as soon as he has gathered the courage to do so. 

"Let's get some sleep, shall we?" Draco says softly. He notices the expectant look on Harry's face—it's hard to miss; even a former Gryffindor wears his heart on his sleeve—and he carefully pulls the man into a tender embrace. 

Draco hasn't given much thought yet to what all of this might mean or where it will lead them, but he can't shake the feeling that tonight is the start of something life changing and quite brilliant. Unable to resist, he reaches up a hand to stroke that mop of unruly black hair. 

He finds that it's so much softer than feathers. 

*******

_The only light in the room is that of the dancing flames in the fireplace illuminating the faces of the two men sitting on the sofa._

They talk deep into the night and sleep well into the day and that's the way it has been for the past two years.

Outside the window, only the silvery moon is watching them, and not a sound is heard but silence.


End file.
